The Nutcracker
by rachel2205
Summary: Robb Stark's father has been dead for a year, and running his business is a burden on a boy now barely eighteen. But a gift of a nutcracker from Father Christmas brings unexpected changes.


**Title:** The Nutcracker, or how Robb Stark defeated the Mouse King  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG  
><strong>Part:<strong> 1 of 2  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> this part just shy of 2000  
><strong>What the what?<strong> Yes, after watching The Nutcracker yesterday I was inspired to write a version based on _Game of Thrones_. Cue Victorian England. It makes sense, I promise. Ish.  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Robb Stark's father has been dead for a year, and running his business is a burden on a boy now barely eighteen. But a gift from Father Christmas brings unexpected changes.  
><strong>Notes:<strong> This chapter is a little depressing, but I guarantee you a happy (more or less) Christmas ending. Merry Christmas, one and all!

Notes: 1. On the ballet that inspires this story, you can read the plot summary here if you're not familiar with it: .org/wiki/The_Nutcracker. It's not necessary to know the ballet to read this, but it might aid your enjoyment. Tchaikovsky's ballet was first performed in 1892, which inspires the late nineteenth century setting of this story. 2. On the location: as the men of the North in iGame of Thrones/i have been given northern English accents, and Sean Bean is from Sheffield, it made sense to me to set the story in that city. Sheffield, a centre of the steel industry during the Industrial Revolution, grew rapidly in the nineteenth century, but industrialisation did not come without price: pollution, cholera outbreaks, and overcrowding were characteristic problems. 3. By the later Victorian period, mourning had become highly ritualised. A brief introduction to Victorian mourning wear and custom is given here: .com/fashion/historical/2001_03_ though you don't need to know all this to follow the story! To boil it down: widows were expected to wear full mourning for two years (with deep mourning being worn for a year and a day of that) and adult children to wear mourning for a parent for a year. (Young children wore modified mourning, or no mourning.)

* * *

><p>Robb heard his mother before he saw her; after a year, the crisp rustle of her crape-trimmed gown was distinctive. But he did not look up from the ledger when she came in, because if he took his eyes off the numbers he would lose track of where he was.<p>

''Ve you come to fetch me home, Mother?' he said, running his left forefinger down the column of figures and scratching a note beside them. His pen sputtered India ink, and with a sigh he reached for his blotter.

'You don't want to be late.'

'I don't want to go at all,' he said. 'I've things to do here.' And that was nothing more than the truth; running the mill was exhausting. His uncle Benjen might be his guardian and official manager of the mill, but he had no head for business of this sort.

'I'll look over these for you,' said Catelyn, gently prising the ledger out from under his hands. It made Robb feel ashamed sometimes that his mother managed numbers better than he ever could, but on the other hand she'd helped his father for all the years of their marriage, so why stop now? 'Now come. It's getting dark.'

'It's December, Mother,' he pointed out. 'It's not been light all day.' Robb turned his head to look through the window of his office. Even on a bright day the light was filtered through the soot stains, and today he could see nothing but murky shadows and a dim orange light that signalled sunset.

'Robb,' said his mother, in that tone of careful patience he knew so well, and he set down his pen at last.

'I know. It's my duty. Though I don't see why attending the Baratheon Christmas festivities _is_ my duty,' he said, jaw clenching. 'Watching Sir Robert get intoxicated, seeing his wife look down her nose at us, and hours of their wretch of a son showing off.'

'Sir Robert was your father's friend,' said his mother. 'And the Lannisters are our greatest rivals –'

'They made Father's life a misery,' Robb interjected furiously; he blamed the Lannisters' ruthless business practices for his father's broken health in the last year of his life. 'Now we're barely keeping the mill running, and they want to show off their wealth. They make me sick to my stomach.'

'They are not my favourite people either,' continued Catelyn calmly, 'but something your Father never learned, God rest him, was that we must keep our enemies close. Ned let himself be isolated by the Lannisters from the other mill owners, and it nearly cost us our livelihood. And,' she added, 'if you don't go, there will be no one to chaperone Sansa, and she will be quite brokenhearted over it.' Robb knew this was true. Sansa had insisted she was grown up enough to wear full mourning for their father, but the year of heavy black dresses with not even a scrap of lace to liven them and the long months of having to turn down social engagements had been hard on her, and the promise of the Lannister party had filled her with an almost pathetic excitement.

'You could come with us,' said Robb, standing up and reaching for his hat; he had at last been able to leave off the crape, which made him feel guilty and glad all at once. 'It's been a year; no one would think it strange, not for a party hosted by friends of the family.' But Catelyn just shook her head, mouth pinched tight, and Robb did not push the subject.

Outside the mill was quiet, machinery shut down early because it was Christmas Eve. The sun was an orange smear against a sooty sky, and their boots clicked on the cobbles of the yard as they crossed to the carriage. Instinctively Robb found himself glancing around to see Jon Snow; as one of the youngest watchmen he'd always been given the least popular shifts, the senior men taking the best for themselves. But no one had seen Snow for nearly a year, not since the day of Ned's funeral. Robb's last glimpse of him had been in the church, sat with other workers at a respectful distance from the family, and then the next day he had not come to work. But that was another thing Robb did not let himself think about. Did not have time to think about, not when there was so much work to be done.

His head ached so often these days that he barely noticed it any more, and so at home, dressing for the party, he ignored the pressure behind his eyes, the slight chill in his bones. He was tired, that was all, and so he did his best to smile at Sansa, who was near-giddy at the freedom of drab half-mourning, black crape all packed away and a sober purple gown laid out, and at Arya and Rickon who were excited for the presents and games a Baratheon party promised. But he felt only some comfort when he climbed the stairs to Bran's room and sat with him quietly for a moment – his bold, brilliant little brother, who had fallen from a tree two years ago and broken his back. Now Bran studied with a tutor rather than going to school, which had at least given him the opportunity to become a great and voracious reader of anything and everything. Tonight he had an atlas on his lap, and Robb sat with him and talked about places Bran would never be able to go, and felt such sadness that it almost choked him. No, the comfort he found here did not last, either, and he returned downstairs and went with his siblings into the crisp evening air.

The Baratheon party was everything he'd grown to expect from years of Christmas festivities; every Christmas Eve of his childhood had been spent here, save last year – that had been too close to his father's death. There was something comforting about the familiarity of the entrance hall decked with holly, and when Sir Robert embraced him, already warm with drink, Robb let himself for a moment lean into the older man and think about how his father's arms had felt around him. But Robert was a heavier, fleshier man, who smelled of cologne and brandy rather than the clean sharp scent of coal tar soap, and Robb drew back and said something polite and nodded with a smile when Robert said, eyes gleaming, how much he looked like his father, even though everyone knew he favoured Catelyn, and followed his host into the drawing room with Sansa on his arm, Arya and Rickon straggling behind with their nurse.

There was Robert's slender, supercilious wife by the fireplace, talking with her twin brother. And there by the tree was Joffrey Baratheon. Robb thought that Cersei's sharp, pinched beauty was in Joffrey's face turned into something rattish, and he certainly approached Sansa – prettier than all the other girls her age here, even in a dull lilac gown – with the anticipatory air of a mouse smelling cheese. Robb's mouse twisted in distaste, but he could not refuse to let his sister dance with Joffrey, who at once began a relentless series of compliments on Sansa's looks entwined with a list of his accomplishments since she had seen him last. Robb was relieved with Father Christmas, robed in green, appeared suddenly and brought an end to the dancing, though he did not miss how Joffrey sneered over the young children scrambling to sit on the visitor's lap and receive a gift.

I should get something to bring home for Bran, it occurred to Robb, and as Father Christmas made his exit Robb followed him into the hallway. With his woollen beard pulled off it was clear he was the Baratheon coachman, and Robb complimented him on his performance before asking if there was anything left in the sack to bring home for his little brother.

'I were only gi'en enough for t'bairns that were here, sir,' he said apologetically.

'That is alright,' said Robb, although he was disappointed.

'Wait!' said the coachman, rummaging in his robe. 'I had walnuts but none o' them wanted 'em, they'd had that many sweets – but I had this t'open 'em – ' He pulled out a nutcracker, small enough to fit in a coat pocket but cunningly carved and painted into a soldier, its oversized mouth used to crack the nuts.

'Thank you,' said Robb, turning the curio over in his hands. Bran liked oddities, and so this might suit him.

Back in the drawing room, Robb set the nutcracker carefully down on a side table as he went to get himself a glass of punch. His throat was very dry this evening, and no amount of drink seemed to quench his thirst. The fire seemed very hot, but Lady Baratheon was always complaining of the chill of the north and so kept the hearths well stoked. Returning, he found the nutcracker gone – and saw that Rickon had seized hold of it, and was opening and closing its jaw, laughing as he did so. And then Joffrey, Sansa clinging to his arm as if they were taking a promenade in the park, snatched the nutcracker out of Rickon's hands and pronounced it the ugliest thing he had ever seen. Rickon's mouth trembled, and Robb stepped in to stop him bursting into tears and causing a scene.

'I only thought the baby shouldn't play with it; it's not a toy,' said Joffrey carelessly.

'I'm not a _baby_,' Rickon insisted, mouth wobbling harder, and Joffrey laughed and dropped the nutcracker onto the carpet, where one of its thin little arms, barely broader than a matchstick, snapped off.

'That was a gift for Bran,' said Robb tightly, picking it up.

'It suits him better now, then,' said Joffrey, mouth twisting up into a mean little smile, and Robb knew what he meant. A cripple for a cripple, and he felt his hand curl into a fist.

'Come, Sansa,' said Robb tightly. 'We'd best be going home.' And for once in her life Sansa did not protest but followed meekly, fetching Arya from a game of checkers by the Christmas tree. Robb tucked the broken nutcracker into his coat pocket; it was ruined now, but he found himself foolishly unwilling to leave it behind.

In the carriage on the way home Robb was silent. Even in the cool night air his skin felt flushed, his head throbbed, and by the time they got to the house he wanted nothing more than to lie down. He gave his family an abrupt good night and went to bed. The servant had put a warming pan in the bottom of the bed, and Robb tucked his feet up away from it, cold pillow a blissful relief against his hot face. He was beginning to think that maybe he was sick, not just tired, but his head ached too much for him to dwell on it. He just needed to rest, and then everything would be alright in the morning.

Hand curled under his cheek, Robb fell into sleep, and then into dream.


End file.
